And to what do I owe this pleasure?
Forgive a besotted husband who can’t stay away from his wife. His words were so smooth they might’ve been rehearsed. And while I would do well to remember that none of this is real, I’d still given in to the glow of pleasure.I’ve been shopping.
Buy anything interesting? A cruise liner, a small principality; that sort of thing?I’d turned from dropping the files to the desk as he’d sat up, catching me around my waist and drawing me between his legs.
I didn’t buy anything for myself.His hands fed up my body to my waist, a current of electricity chasing his touch. I allowed him to turn me and pull me back onto his lap.I bought you this.
Something delicate dropped in front of me, the slight weight settling between my breasts. I placed my hand over it a pendant, though as he fastened the chain, I was filled with the overwhelming sense of being collared like a pet. But as he’d pressed his lips to the nape of my neck, the sensation seemed to change becoming something much silkier. Longing, I guess.
It’s beautiful. A long pendant sat between my breasts; an infinity sign with two green and two clear stones woven in with the gold.
I went with the intention of buying you a watch.He huffed an amused chuckle, the brush of his breath making me shiver.But then I saw this. Diamonds for a diamond.Because diamonds don’t shine, they reflect. And peridot,he’d added,considered to be lesser stones compared to emeralds, but these are so much closer to the colour of your eyes.
Is it any wonder I feel such confusion? I shouldn’t feel anything, because this is just pretend. He forced me into this marriage for his own reasons, and yes, the choice was mine to agree or not, but I should still be furious.
Why aren’t I?
A glance to the top of my desk brings my attention to the magazine lying there. Leaning forward in my chair, I pull this month’s glossy copy ofHiyacloser. The magazine that contains our centre spread. As it turns out, Beckett hadn’t responded the way I thought he would, and was more than happy to invite the features editor and accompanying photographer into his home to sell the world on what a joy we’d found.
‘It’ll be good for business,’he’d decreed privately.Good for both our businesses.Publicity for mine, another layer of deceit for his machinations.
I spread open the glossy pages and look at the photo of us in his perfect kitchen. I’m standing on one side of the island, my back pressed against the cabinet’s opposite while Beckett’s long frame lounges on one of the high stools. There’s a bowl of lemons and limes sitting in between us, their vibrant colours a perfect contrast to the dark and sleek tones of the marble and cabinetry. My hands are curled around a cup of coffee and I’m laughing, though not for the camera but rather at something Beckett had said. And he’s watching me with that perfect half-smile of his. It’s a picture of love and domesticity, with a headline that’s a complement to the tales we’ve been spinning. The tales we’d continued to spin for them.
Love E-Volves
How the finance magnate and the romance start up owner found the algorithm for love.
If only.
My phone begins to vibrate against my desk, so I close the magazine before I get sucked into the article and all it represents for the third time today.
A click denotes a transatlantic call, Reggie’s dulcet tones almost a purr. ‘How goes married life?’
‘Oh, just peachy,’ I reply, my own tone more sing-song.
‘Not lime-y?’
‘Why? because he’s British?’ I sort of snort, my gaze turning to the window. Blue skies, fluffy clouds, and chimney pots. It’s shaping up to be a beautiful fall.
‘Good pun, but no. I’m looking atHiyamagazine online. I even paid for a subscription to get my hands on this baby.’
‘Ahh.’ I quickly turn my moan into something else. ‘The limes on the countertop?’ Did I even mention the interview to her? Maybe she saw it on one of E-Volve’s Instagram stories.
‘You didn’t tell me Beckett was rich—like, mega rich.’
‘I did, the first time we talked about him.’ The day she’d said that getting freaky on the back seat while his driver stood outside was unwise, that he’d left me there on a torturous simmer because he was a little eccentric. She’d said that the rich get a pass for being weird, as I recall. The second time we discussed Beckett was when I called her to tell her I’d married him. That time I did not get a pass. I got a grilling.
‘But babe, there’s rich and there’s ridiculous. And Beckett is—’
‘I know. But how do you tell people that?’
‘How do you say you’re marrying a rich man to your friend?’ she repeats. ‘Your best friend?’ Or maybe how do you avoid telling your best friend that your marriage is all business and convenience? ‘You just say it,’ she adds simply.
‘So I was supposed to say; Reggie, I’m marrying a man I just met. I fell into deep, passionate love with him but because he’s super rich people are going to say I married him for money and that’s going to make me feel like shit.’
‘No, you were supposed to say; Reggie, I’ve met the dick I’m gonna ride for the rest of my life.’ I burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the sparsely decorated room. ‘No one gets to make you feel bad for making decisions in your own life.’
‘You are a good friend, but you don’t think like other people.’ The ones full of scepticism. The ones whose doubts will be proven right in a few months.
